Some trifle

If I were the kind of person who was interested in clicks, I think I’d start writing about particularly British things an American living in the UK notices—how subtly differently they do things here. Maybe I’ve clicked once too often on the accounts that feature that stuff, but now my Instagram feed is a torrent of don’t even need filtering fresh-faced Americans with gleaming teeth talking to the camera about rainwear and warm beer and queuing. And like a fool I’m sucked in every time because…what divides us also brings us closer together? Or some such nonsense. One guy this morning was adamant that the public drunkenness on display in London’s Soho of a weekend night was not cool, bro you’re 35 NOT 25 and the replies savaging his righteous rant reminded me why I love it here (and how it might actually be the British who love lurking around and reading this stuff).

See – I can feel it happening in subtle ways. Britishisms creeping into my speech and/or writing patterns. A tendency to employ modifiers like “proper” and “quite” without meaning to. Those aren’t even the colorful ones, but then it is November and things are definitely pretty drab in the UK at this time of year (see – I consciously avoided saying things were quite drab. I’m still an American, and say “pretty” with a d sound – I’m not full-on pretentious…yet.)

So here’s a list I jotted down this morning, in no particular order, of phrases and ways of talking and being that I notice being back here in England after six or seven weeks in the US. Sometime I even push myself to sound more American, it sets one apart. (You see, language is a minefield. It’s never good when you start referring to yourself in the third person, or…as “one.” Don’t move to another country people, if you want to stay pure, or sure of who you are. But then again – who wants that?)

Now, picture me pink-cheeked, bright-eyed and shrouded in mist and hardy outdoorswear, looking straight into the camera:

“If you’re living in England and order drinks in a bar or restaurant, you’re gonna have to choose WHAT SIZE WINE you want. They’re gonna offer you Medium or Large (get it – small is NOT an option). Of course you’ll choose LARGE if you want to fit in, and then, why not say “Oh go on then” which is what I notice people say when they’re throwing caution to the wind. Nice. I have yet to actually say that out loud, but I think it, every time.

Oh go on then.

When your husband accomplishes something not that impressive, like shopping at the grocery store (an entire category of its own – was it Sainsburys, or – be still my heart, Waitrose, or did he tough it out at Aldi, Morrisons or Tescos (it’s singular but say it with an s on the end) or maybe he’s executed a neat little bit of parking in one of the shockingly tight car parks, say “the boy done good” to no one, just say it out loud like you’re a character in a Guy Ritchie film.

By the same token (whose token? What exactly does that mean?!) when you’re heading out into the world for a spot of shopping, at some point when the strain is just too much, say “I could murder a coffee.” Even better, be SPECIFIC about what kind of coffee you violently want to ingest: I could murder a Costa or Kenco or an oat flat white. There is a brutality to the British that creeps in in the most charming ways.

But there’s also a sweet civility – make sure to greet the bus driver when you board and thank them when you get off the bus. Be sure especially to do this in London, if you want to feel like a total rube. I keep noticing when I do make it to London that the ways of the country in this country are markedly different from the city, even if the distance from one place to another isn’t great. You enter Port Authority in Manhattan via New Jersey, but coming into Liverpool Street in London is like you took a two hour train journey from Nebraska and stepped out into NYC. A true marker of maturity must be wearing provincial status like a badge of honor and pride.

There are certain common phrases here that transform me into a cast member in a British crime drama: “Leave it with me,” said the receptionist at the optometrist in response to my bland question for the eye doctor. Suddenly in my mind I WAS Sarah Lancashire in Happy Valley, with that hi-vis vest built to protect against assaults. “Hiya,” is another one that slips out effortlessly as a greeting by a stranger (usually female), and I’m suddenly a character in an Acorn TV series set somewhere in the north.

If you’re over a certain age in this country, a common annoyance is to be mistaken for a pensioner ie it’s assumed you are retired and at leisure at all times, and also that you’ll be deeply suspicious of any offerings on a menu or in a display case that might be challenging. It occurred to me when I was in the US last month, there IS no such thing as a pensioner in America. I mean there are people with pensions from their jobs and older people who collect Social Security as long as it still exists, but there’s no lumping together of the elderly into this comfortable leisure class who are free to live out their remaining time wearing cozy sportswear and cluttering up places like Cromer and service areas en masse. It’s all much more niche in America, the Florida brigade, senior gamblers and casino goers, leaf peepers, sporty types and culture mavens. I never heard the word “pensioner” before I came to the UK, and it scares me. It’s likely the whole idea of retirement as a way of life is heading for extinction, and maybe that should make me sad. Because I have seen a Model Train Village and it was a wondrous thing. The people who volunteer to run the steam trains are also adorable. I’m having a change of heart right now and am thinking I want to embrace the pensioners. I just don’t want younger people looking right through me like I’ve served all my earthly purpose, when it feels like there is so much left to do. One day there might be a diorama in the Natural History Museum “When Pensioners Roamed The Birchanger Services.” And younger generations will see what’s been lost.

I’m rambling now. It’s going to take years for me to hone the sharpness of wit I really need to fit in here. Just this afternoon, as Eric and I were tooling around Norwich running errands —before rushing home for a record label meeting via zoom and a rehearsal for Eric’s gig at the Lexington in London on Friday – we’re not retired for God’s sake – a mini Cooper crossed our path. Eric was driving, as I’m still working my way up to taking my British driving test and have to pace myself handling the car through roundabouts, city centres, tiny car parks and twisting one lane country lanes. I’m getting there though. It’ll be a long time before I’m queen of the road like in America. I’ve been trying to get behind the wheel more often – it’s not the driving on the opposite side thing that’s hard but the rigor and discipline needed on much smaller roads with more precise rules (right turn on red—unthinkable; the comportment the general British driving public exhibits at roundabouts is stunning especially if you’re used to driving in, say, New Jersey).

“Have you noticed how…mini-Coopers, I don’t know – kind of generalizing here but – a lot of them have this attitude, like-—they’re entitled or kind of um arrogan—

“Wankers.” Eric said. Nailed it with one word. It’s a small country and there’s not a lot of space.

I haven’t mentioned the weather, or how nobody uses umbrellas in the rain, not once.